Home.
The door closes on
A headphoned man. He looks up
Through thick-framed glasses,
Evaporates into the
Luminous shadows. I stare

Out of fogged windows.
Familliar City Skyline,
Wheels churning, churning
Underfoot. Humidity
Grips the yellow raincoat man,

Sweat trickling down the
Brim of his nose. He scratches
Answers to a crossword.
The brakes lurch gently, feeling,
Feverish.
Tuned into Iron and Wine.

Umbrellas litter
The aisle, condensed muggy
Air perspires from
The windows. Awkward glances
For now—just for now. There is

No coming home tonight.
The impassioned horizon
Focuses within
My opaque retinas, halos
Crown streetlights, sirens drowned out

By Camillo. It’s
Lukewarm, holding the mast for
Support, my stream of
Consciousness gently failing.
Leather and coffee sitting

Parallel to me,
Plugged into a nameless album.
Briefcased lawyer to
His left. Their sporadic glance
Never meets. Lurch again. Stop.

The floodgates open,
Light pours in, the bell tolls, it
Is just as soon gone.
Eternal darkness passing
By the windows. Rails grinding

On the abused steel.
Intercom, “doors open on
The left.” Stop, walk. Stop.
Wait.
A Soulpatch-ed man stands on the
Yellow median and stares

Down the tunnel line.
Lake Michigan. I jump in.
The wind is blowing,
Steady, faster. A Tin box arrives,
Stampede emerges from its
Ribcage.

Cross the border. The
Boston Metro boards, followed
By The Boston Globe.
And, the New Yorker, and the
Atlantic Monthly. I try

Steadying myself.
I smell a dull, faded scent.
Cigarette burns, and
The end of life as we know it.